I DO
by toneyspeaksloud
Summary: John Watson is getting married. But to whom? Lestrade is a best man? Who is the bride? Grab your nicotine patches, kids, it's gonna be a bumpy fanfic. My first fanfic inspired by a post on Tumblr, touched up and edited.


Thank you, Molly Hooper.

John Watson was a bit more than nervous for today, the day of his wedding. As he walked up to the alter, the priest noticed his limp was far more pronounced than it usually is. "How's your leg, John?" he whispered. "DAMN my leg!" John roared. A couple nervous coughs echoed faintly through the church. John, tapping his cane on the ground, shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, er, sorry…"

This wedding felt more like a funeral to him. His bride was anything but bride like, the priest was anything but holy, and Greg Lestrade was hardly a best man. After the way he took the death of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson barely considered him a man at all. And yet, who else did he have, with him gone? "_Where are you, Sherlock? You're not dead. Please don't be dead.._."  
"Mister Watson? Mister Watson. John!"  
"Ah, yes, what?"  
"Mister Watson, please save the day dreaming for the honeymoon, yes?" the priest snarled in hushed tones.  
"R-right…"

Daydreaming? _"No,"_ he thought,_"THIS is a dream. There's no way this is happening. Sherlock is dead, I'm getting married, Anderson hasn't been called a twat in the last five minutes. Right, THIS is a dream. A really, really bad dream. This is all wrong. He's not dead. He can't be…"_

__ "And do you take John Hamish Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Suddenly, the Church was buzzing with the sound of telephones, all simultaneously receiving a text message. Watson's eyes widened with hope, Lestrade's eyes closed with grief. "Oh, not this again…" he muttered.

John reached clumsily into his pocket, unable, at first, to even get his hand in. He was trembling with disbelief, but held strong with hope. "Please, don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Please, Sherlock…!" he whispered under his breath. His phone read: ONE UNDREAD MESSAGE. IGNORE. And READ. With high anticipation, John selected READ.

I DO.

"What's this?" the priest leaned, very unpriest-like over the alter, reading with squinted eyes a text. Everyone, rows upon rows of people were quizzically digging into pockets and purses, all with confused faces. A certain Mrs. Hudson light up, beaming with excitement.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them. If there's no more hesitations, please, Father, continue." Sally Donovan, bridesmaid to the bride said loudly. John didn't hear a word of it, his heart was racing, his head, throbbing, the room started to spin.

"Well… right," said the priest. "Do you take John Watson to be your husband?" Again, the room was filled with the hum of phones going off. Literally jumping where he stood, John Watson raced his hand into his pocket once more and found his phone.

I DO.

And then a text came to John, and John alone.

YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.  
SH

"Sh-Sherlo…?" John breathed heavily. He scanned the crowd of people nervously, looking for him, but couldn't see him. He couldn't see Sherlock Holmes. He looked to Mrs. Hudson, with tear filled eyes, who pointed to the door and whispered the word, "Go find him, John!" Leaving his cane (and his limp) at the alter, John Watson ran. He ran passed scores of people, all with mouths wide open, or faces twisted with bewilderment.

"John, wait!" John paused before he turned back to his bride. There she stood, dressed in white, her red lips and hair both painted in what, one consulting detective might deduce, was a clear attempt to outshine her much more youthful bridesmaids. "Don't you dare."

"I'm so sorry, Molly." And he ran. He made it to the large, wooden Church doors and swung them open. The blinding midday sun was too much, he couldn't see anything. He shielded his eyes with his hand, while he waited for them to adjust to the bright light. All the while, John was praying, "Please, don't be dead, please, please, _**please**_…!" There stood a shadowy figure, a tall man, holding a cup of coffee, with his coat collar turned up, and with cheekbones so high, you could cut yourself smacking them.

"John, wait!" called Molly, running behind him.

"Ah, Molly," said the shadowy silhouette in a deep, silky voice. "Flowers, thank you. What happened to the wedding?" The man casually strolled towards the couple. He smiled, knowing very damn well what happened to the wedding.

"It wasn't working for me," said John. He still couldn't see properly, but could it be? He couldn't believe it. There was no way. The man took the flowers from Molly, kissed her on the cheek and said, "Here's that coffee you wanted. I promise one day we'll have some together. But as for today, he's mine." The man whispered the words, "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

"Who is-?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b, Baker Street. Afternoon, John. Let's go home, I bought milk."


End file.
